


Trace Decay

by sunaddicted



Series: 007 Games Fics 2k20 [15]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Cock & Ball Torture, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Past Abuse, Post-Casino Royale, Scars, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Shame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:42:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25283320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunaddicted/pseuds/sunaddicted
Summary: The mind might not have been that good at retaining memories but the body was and James’ body remembered.
Relationships: James Bond/Q
Series: 007 Games Fics 2k20 [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1794529
Comments: 8
Kudos: 50
Collections: 007 Fest Fancreations





	Trace Decay

**Author's Note:**

> This is my fill for the "Trace" prompt of the Angst Prompt Table.
> 
> It also fills Prompt 116 of the Anonymous Prompt Exchange (2017): (past noncon? abuse) Bond comes back from the Casino Royale with a new fetish he feels dirty about

_ Trace Decay _

Short term memory was supposed to last only between fifteen and thirty seconds unless rehearsed but there James was, breath heavy with arousal and shame as Q’s hand shamelessly made its way between his thighs and the memory of how exactly LeChiffre had abused his body was still as fresh years later as if the man had just finished busting his balls, every strike of the knotted rope still vividly painful in his mind, making his muscles quiver as he was filled in equal part both by excitement and dread.

James knew that turning the pain to pleasure just was a way for the mind to protect itself - to keep going past the traumatic experience so that it could keep functioning instead of cannibalizing itself over what had happened and couldn’t be changed, no matter how hard he wished that he had never had to endure that torture that had left him even more broken than he had already been.

It wasn’t the first time it happened either: as an agent - as a Double-Oh - it was unfortunately common to be apprehended and held captive by malicious hands that didn’t care about getting dirt and blood underneath their nails because the only thing that mattered was the answer they would try to coax out of him, chipping away at his body; drawing blood and other bodily fluids; marking him up with scars that would fade but never really disappear.

The mind might not have been that good at retaining memories but the body was and James’ body  _ remembered _ .

And how couldn’t it? The scarring on his scrotum was extensive and permanent, he felt it beneath the pad of his fingers whenever he washed and touched himself, some part of his brain making him squirm as it commanded him to squeeze and feel - to reclaim that pain and make him his, something he could get off to rather than relegate to a note in his Medical file stating that if he had ever had the smallest urge to build a family of his own, it was one he could suffocate in the depths of his heart because, with the damage his testicles had sustained, in no way he was going to be able to father children without the aid of science and of an anonymous sperm donor.

He didn’t particularly care, it didn’t make him feel any less virile - what he had a hard time to accept was the new kink he had had acquired as an unwanted souvenir after that mission, bothersome and hard to ignore whenever he was pleasuring himself and there was no reason for him to stop his fingers from manipulating his ballsack harshly, tugging at it as his knuckles turned white with the roughness of his grip, made tighter and tighter by the shame he felt everytime he indulged into that desire. It was easier to deal with it -  _ to avoid it _ \- when he was out in the field, neck deep in a honeypot mission: his marks wanted to be pampered; to be at the centre of attention; to be brought to the brink of orgasm without having to do much, just taking him and his ministrations until they fooled themselves in love and spilled their secrets in his ears.

With Q, it was different.

Sometime in the wake of Skyfall’s ruins, the younger man had wormed his way past his defenses and into his heart, moving cats and books and ugly cardigans into what once had probably been the saddest flat in Chelsea - now it bustled with life, morphed from a house into a home he wanted to come back to in front of his very eyes.

It was a lot more difficult to hide his desires from Q; the other man  _ wanted _ to pleasure him, not to lay in bed and let him do all the work - he wanted to make love, to kiss and touch and explore his body just as much as James did. 

It was wonderful. 

Everyone presumed that he always was sated, with all the sex he had out in the field; they didn't seem to realise that those encounters were planned to the detail, that sometimes he wasn't even attracted to the people he had to seduce and bed and even when he was, it still wasn't about him: it was about subtly manipulating the mark and attempting to turn them against whoever they were working for - sex during missions was a dangerous game, one that he had grown very good at playing but that hardly ever was enjoyable in the way people thought it would be. 

James' thighs shifted, parting even as the muscles clenched with tension and his belly flipped; he could ask Q to be tougher, to squeeze his scrotum until there were tears gathered at the corners of his eyes and spilling down his cheeks while a litany of moans left his throat, leaving it scraped and burning by his own pleasure - it wouldn't be the first time Q indulged a kink of his, the younger man was a lot less vanilla in the sheets than his prim and proper demeanour would lead one to believe. 

He probably wouldn't even ask questions, except maybe request that he used a safe word if whatever he asked of him was something that Q feared could easily get out of hand. He certainly wouldn't judge or try to psychoanalyse him, the only one who was making things difficult was James himself with the burning shame coiled deep in his belly that kept him from speaking out loud - from telling his lover what he needed because his own brain thought it was wrong and dirty and  _ sick _ .

Q's hand slid further down, fingers wrapping up around the base of his cock to squeeze, tearing a moan out of his vocal chords. 

Maybe the next time. 

Maybe the next time he would talk. 


End file.
